


A Study In Sleep

by Sarbear08



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 times Sherlock wants cuddles and the one time John actually figures it out, 5+1 Things, Angst, Drugged Sherlock Holmes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John likes Sherlock's hair, M/M, Nightmares, No Plot/Plotless, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, sometime before 2x03 (the Reichenbach Fall)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarbear08/pseuds/Sarbear08
Summary: John finds out that Sherlock really likes to snuggle.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 40
Kudos: 497





	1. The death of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дело о сне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29720094) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



“Could you _please_ drive faster,” John urged. It was _not_ a question. He checked his phone for what must have been the millionth time in the last five minutes. Reread the message. _That_ message.

Sherlock had left the flat early that morning before John was up. He’d left the case files on the cluttered table for John to read over along with a note: _The game is on!_

And it was. But this one was different. This one was dangerous. Even more dangerous than what Sherlock was used to. John couldn’t help the rising dread in the pit of his stomach.

That was when he got the text. It was from Lestrade. It was clear even to John it had been hastily typed and sent.

 _Body found. Come quickly. I’m on my way now,_ with an address written underneath. Along with the message was an attached image of the preliminary medical examiner’s report. A description of the body: _dark, curly hair. Tall, skinny figure. Pale complexion._

John flexed the fingers of his left hand, curled them into a fist. Clenched his jaw. Repeated the process. It couldn’t be him, could it? Sherlock was smart. Smart enough to avoid getting murdered. Wasn’t he? He _had_ to be. He was Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. He had to be alright. He couldn’t be– _Jesus._

John clenched his fist. He didn’t so much as flinch as his fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palm, surely drawing blood.

After what felt like hours, John finally saw the blinding swarm of police lights as the cab pulled up near the crime scene. He paid the driver with shaking hands, not bothering to wait for something as inconsequential as his change.

Lestrade was almost instantly at his side, briefly placing a hand on his arm. The action was most likely meant to be comforting, but given the situation, it only made John want to punch the detective square in the face.

“I just got here,” Lestrade explained. He paused, hesitating before speaking again, his tone grim. “It’s this way.”

John followed Lestrade past the police tape in a haze, only a single thought running through his mind on repeat. Over and over. _Please God, don’t let it be him._

“Always knew this would happen,” Anderson said as he walked towards them.

“What would happen, exactly?” John asked, his tone clipped. He might as well have had a neon sign that said ‘fuck off before I punch you’ taped to his forehead.

“This,” Anderson said, gesturing to a yellow tarp covering the body just a few meters away from where the men stood.

John clenched his jaw, methodically flexing his left hand. “What,” he said, though it wasn’t really a question of any sort.

“Oh no,” Lestrade said. “It’s him?”

Anderson responded with a small nod, eyeing John warily. “It’s him alright.”

John’s vision blurred slightly and he stumbled forwards a few steps. His _best friend._

“Let me see,” John said.

“John, don’t,” Lestrade reached out for John’s arm, trying to pull him back

John shrugged out of the detectives grip, stumbling further towards the tarp. _The tarp covering Sherlock._ His _best friend._ “Show me,” he demanded breathlessly.

Anderson stepped forwards and folded back the tarp until the body was fully visible. Even though the body was facing away from them, obscuring its face from view, the black curls were instantly recognizable. As was the long, black coat that lay limply around the body, no longer flowing gently in the wind in time with every step Sherlock took.

“Jesus. No, no. _No,_ ” John heard his voice say although he wasn’t aware he was speaking.

“Damn it,” Lestrade whispered under his breath.

The world felt like it had been turned upside down and was tumbling down all around John. Demolished. Obliterated. He felt like the world was spinning around him, everyone else just a blur save for the body on the ground. John stumbled forwards towards where Sherlock was lying lifelessly on the ground. A firm hand on his arm stopped him from moving any closer.

“Don’t want to do that,” Anderson said quietly.

John didn’t hesitate to swat his hand away. “Why not?” he seethed.

Anderson sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “His face, it’s not– intact,” he said cautiously, keeping a wary eye on John to ensure his face didn’t soon look the same.

“What happened?” Lestrade finally asked.

“Looks like someone bashed it in pretty good. Not sure with what yet.” Anderson paused for a moment before turning to John. “I am sorry.”

John barely heard the condolences over the noise in his head, drowning out all other thoughts. He was gone. His best friend was _gone. Forever._ Sherlock was–

“Awful way to go, isn’t it?” came a familiar, deep baritone voice from behind them.

John nearly fainted.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade managed to say despite the shock of seeing a dead man standing in front of him.

“Yes, that’s my name,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he were explaining something to a small child. His eyebrows furrowed as he took in the look of shock on everyone’s abnormally pale faces. “Have I missed something?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“You– you’re not–” John managed to splutter despite his shock-addled brain, gesturing wildly from Sherlock to the corpse and back again.

“What? Are you ill?” Sherlock asked, crinkles appearing across his forehead as he attempted unsuccessfully to deduce what was going on.

“You were–” John tried again, but yielded no more success than his previous attempt at speech.

Before Sherlock could process what was happening, John had thrown himself at Sherlock, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Sherlock froze like he’d just been turned to stone, unsure what to do with the sudden intimate contact.

In an attempt to avoid passing out from the emotional whiplash he’d just experienced, John tried to focus on feeling the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest with every breath he took. Because he was very much alive. Only the living breathe, John reminded himself.

When it became clear after a moment that John would not be releasing Sherlock anytime soon, he began to relax slightly into the embrace, and even wrapped his own arms around John, resting one across his back and the other against the nape of his neck.

Sherlock—being as observant as he was—noticed quite quickly that John’s whole body was shaking. So violently that Sherlock was worried if he removed his arms from John, he might collapse altogether. Just to be on the safe side, Sherlock held John slightly tighter.

Once Sherlock had deemed it safe enough to let go and that John was no longer in risk of falling, he did so.

“Would someone care to explain what is going on?” Sherlock asked, directing his question accusatorily towards Lestrade and Anderson.

“You’re dead!” Anderson exclaimed, looking between Sherlock and where the body still lay uncovered.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock asked indignantly. “I appear to be very much alive, thank you.”

“He looks like you, Sherlock,” John whispered in a voice so small and quiet, Sherlock barely even recognized it.

“He wh– Oh,” Sherlock paused as realization sunk in.

The silence only lasted for a moment, though as the crease in his brow returned as it so often did when he was thinking. “And this upset you?” Sherlock asked, his question directed at John this time.

“Yes, of course it did,” John exclaimed.

“Really? Fascinating.”

This time, it was John’s turn to look confused.

“I didn’t think anyone would care if I died,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, come on,” Lestrade said. “We would.” He gave Anderson a swift and not-so-subtle elbow to the ribs.

“R–right,” Anderson supplied. “We would.”

“I care,” John said, voice still trembling slightly more than he’d care to admit.

“Really?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

“But why?”

“Well– You– I guess–” John made a strangled sort of noise that was meant to be a laugh but had turned into a bit of a snort somewhere along the way. He cleared his throat. “You’re my friend,” he said simply.

“My _best_ friend,” he added when Sherlock said nothing in response.

“Really?”

“I think you’ve broken him,” Lestrade mumbled under his breath.

“Best friend,” Sherlock said, playing with the words as though he’d just spoken them for the first time. Perhaps he had.

“Yes. Best friend,” John repeated, trying to make it as clear as possible for Sherlock.

For someone so intuitive, he could be so blind when it came to the matter of anything along the lines of feelings or emotions.

“Best friend,” Sherlock said again, as though saying it out loud would somehow make it more official. A rare, genuine smile spread across his face, saying more than his words ever could about his feelings towards this new title. “I like it,” he announced, his eyes gleaming as he smiled at John almost as brightly as they did when he was solving a particularly complicated murder.

Three days later, Sherlock solved the case and went back to writing his blog—even though no one ever actually read it—and searching for a new supposedly unsolvable case.

It took three weeks for John to stop picturing his best friend’s body lying on the cold pavement every time he closed his eyes.


	2. A taxi ride from hell

“Sherlock!” John screamed as the needle was plunged into Sherlock’s neck and its contents emptied into his body.

Sherlock slumped to the floor as the masked man ran off­—the Cold-Blooded killer, they were calling him. John ran to Sherlock, dropping to his knees by his side.

“Sherlock?” he asked breathlessly.

Sherlock’s eyes were drooping shut and he was in incredible danger of drifting off into a state of drugged unconsciousness.

“Sherlock,” John repeated, gently shaking at his shoulders. “Stay with me. You can’t fall asleep, I don’t know what he gave you.”

Sherlock struggled to peel his eyes open at the sound of John’s voice. “J– John?”

“Shh, don’t try to talk. Help is coming. You’re okay.” John could hear the fast approaching sirens. They’d be here any moment now.

Instinctively, he took Sherlock’s pulse—it was faster than normal, but not alarmingly so—silently thanking God for his extensive in-combat medical training.

Sherlock blinked groggily as he stared up at John—it was all too clear that he was seriously struggling to stay awake, but he was trying to fight the weight of sleep nonetheless because it had been John who’d requested it. Sherlock had never been one to refuse a request from John. John’s fingers lingered on Sherlock’s neck for a moment longer and he only hesitated for a brief moment before brushing the stray, curled strands of hair from Sherlock’s face. John could have sworn he saw the corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl up for the briefest of moments, but it was probably just the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Yes, that was certainly it; just the adrenaline.

Before he knew it, the paramedics were at Sherlock’s side, telling John to back away so they could do their jobs. Their words were indistinct as they filtered through the haze of his mind. As he pulled back slowly, reluctantly doing as they asked, he felt a hand catch his and hold fast, refusing to let go. Sherlock had a surprisingly strong grip considering he’d just been drugged with what could be assumed to be a particularly potent mix of chemicals.

John abided his silent request and moved closer to Sherlock’s head, making sure to leave the paramedics plenty of room to work beside him. A stray bead of sweat ran from Sherlock’s brow, making its way down the side of his concerningly pale face and without a second thought, John had reached out to wipe it away. He stayed by Sherlock’s side until he the paramedics were sure he was in stable condition, stroking the detective’s hand with his thumb and occasionally murmuring things like ‘everything will be okay,’ and ‘I’m right here, Sherlock.’

******

Upon Sherlock’s insistence—which meant one too many insightful deductions about their day-to-day lives and oddly elaborate threats of painful death—the paramedics agreed that as long as John stayed with him, he could go home. They’d determined the drugs Sherlock had been injected with were simply a variation of sedatives and there would be no serious effects from them, they merely needed to be slept off. Plus, John figured dealing with a drugged Sherlock couldn’t be too different from dealing with an every-day Sherlock.

Oh, how he was wrong.

“’M like you, John Watson,” Sherlock drawled as he clambered into the taxi, maneuvering his long limbs with the grace equivalent to that of a hippopotamus. “You very nice.”

“Am I?” John mumbled a non-committal response.

“Oh yesss. Very.”

John slid into the cab beside Sherlock and shut the door behind him. “Two twenty-one Baker Street,” he told the driver.

Sherlock slid off the seat as the taxi started moving until he was crumpled into a heap of limbs on the floor of the taxi.

John sighed. “Sherlock?” he asked slowly, leaning down until he was almost eye level with the detective. “What are you doing down there?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock said eloquently.

“Jesus Sherlock,” John said, running a hand down his face. “Come on.” He reached down, attempting rather unsuccessfully to drag Sherlock back onto the seat.

Sherlock swatted at his hands. “’S comfy,” he whined.

“Sherlock, please.”

“Fineee,” Sherlock said with an overly dramatic sigh as he let himself be hauled back up onto the seat.

“Please don’t ever get drugged again Sherlock, ‘kay?”

“Why not John? It’s so– fun.”

Sherlock’s head lolled to the side and John’s hands hurriedly slipping around his middle and catching him were the only thing stopping him from sliding unceremoniously back onto the floor.

“’S nice,” Sherlock mumbled before collapsing onto John’s side, his head landing on his shoulder.

“Christ, Sherlock, you should’ve gone to the hospital.” 

“No. Hospital. Bad. No.” Sherlock glanced up, his eyes suddenly far more alert than any drugged man’s eyes should have been, seemingly piercing directly into John’s very soul. “I wan–” Sherlock stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. “I wanted t’ go home. With you.”

His eyelids soon grew heavy from the mere effort required to keep them open, and he succumbed to the notion of sleep, shutting his eyes and moving his head back to the solid warmth of John’s shoulder.

John was quite glad Sherlock couldn’t see his face, because for the next forty-three seconds or so, he wore an expression best described by his mother as one he could ‘catch flies with,’ his mouth agape and forming a lovely ‘o’ shape.

The taxi hit a bump, jostling John from his thoughts and causing Sherlock to snuggle even closer to John, if that was at all possible.

“Sherlock, are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell?”

“Hmm.”

Just to be sure—better safe than sorry—John gently raked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, delicately feeling for any lumps or cuts.

Sherlock let out a low moan before going rigidly still against John’s side.

“Sherlock?” John asked, briefly halting the movement of his hands. “You okay?”

“Mmm, s’ felt nice,” Sherlock murmured.

Oh. _Oh._

John sent a furtive glance to his right. Then left. They _were_ in a car, he supposed no one would see if he just–

He let his fingers wander back into Sherlock’s dark curls, gently massaging his scalp. Despite being as smart as he was, John figured even Sherlock’s mind wouldn’t remember anything once he’d sobered up.

John continued working his hands through Sherlock’s hair until the detective was making noises oddly similar to that of a purring cat. John smiled softly to himself. It was rather endearing to see this side of Sherlock—one of England’s greatest minds unraveled by something so simple as John’s touch.

John let himself enjoy the feeling of his fingers running through Sherlock’s hair until his soft smile was instantaneously removed from his face. They were stopped in some traffic and the taxi driver was currently looking _right at them_ through the damned rearview mirror. John immediately ripped his fingers from Sherlock’s oh-so-soft curls and tried to shimmy away from him as much as possible without allowing him to fall over—which wasn’t very far, seeing as the back seat of the taxi was quite small.

John looked out the window for the rest of the drive in an attempt to hide his embarrassingly reddened face from the driver.

When they finally pulled up outside two twenty-one b, John thrust money at the driver, ensuring to avoid eye contact with him and not bothering to take his change.

“Sherlock?” John gently shook the detective, trying to rouse him. He was most certainly _not_ going to carry him into the flat bridal-style.

“Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ ”

“Hmmgh?” Sherlock moaned, blinking sleepily a few times and only hesitating a moment before reluctantly removing his head from its perch on John’s shoulder.

“We’re home,” John informed him.

“Ah. Lovely,” Sherlock said, his words still slightly slurred from the long-term effects of the drugs. “John?”

“Yes?”

“You really are a– good friend,” the detective mumbled.

“Thanks?” John said, a little more than slightly confused by his sudden display of gratitude.

Sherlock leaned across John, his body a long length of glorious warmth against him, and promptly vomited out the open door.


	3. Two pieces of a puzzle

John had finally put Sherlock to bed to sleep off the lasting effects of the drugs, and had just managed to get nearly three whole hours of sleep himself when–

_Thump._

John groaned and opened his sleep addled eyes to stare into the darkness of his room. He must have been hearing things, but he could have sworn–

_Thump._

John sat bolt upright, fully alert now—he definitely wasn’t imagining that noise.

_Thump._

John peeled back his sheets, reluctantly leaving the warmth of his bed and began to make his way downstairs.

_Thump._

This time, the noise was followed by a sad, pathetic whimper of sorts.

“Sherlock?” John whispered into the pitch-black room.

The detective was certainly not known for his impeccable sleep schedule. In fact, John wasn’t even sure Sherlock slept at all some nights. He–

 _Thump. Thump. Thud,_ followed by a series of absolutely heart-wrenching mewls.

“Sherlock?” John called into the darkness, picking up his speed as he moved through the flat. He was immensely grateful he knew the place so well, so he was quite confident that he wouldn’t walk into anything in the dark. “Sherl– oh _fuck,_ ” John cursed as his foot connected not-so-kindly with the doorframe of the sitting room. John hissed a string of wildly colourful words Mrs. Hudson would have slapped him upside the head for so much as thinking.

He didn’t have time to worry for long about waking her though, as the whimpers were back, now sounding more like the pitiful crying of a wounded animal. He followed the sounds down the hallway, limping slightly on his throbbing toes. He paused at Sherlock’s door for a moment, turning his ear towards it—there was no doubt where the sounds were coming from.

John reached up and, not wanting to disturb Sherlock’s privacy, tentatively knocked on the door. The whimpers stopped almost instantly, turning instead to muffled sniffles that John was sure Sherlock thought he couldn’t hear.

“Sherlock?” John asked. “Can I come in?”

Silence.

“Sherlock? Please?”

The door clicked, indicating that it had been unlocked and John took a deep breath before entering the room, preparing himself for whatever he was about to find.

What he _did_ find was not at all what he’d been expecting. He wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years.

Sherlock was sitting in a heap on the ground, his limbs bent at awkward angles that must have been impossibly uncomfortable, and his bed sheets were wrapped around his body, constricting his movement even further. His eyes were red and puffy, and there was evidence of tear tracks that had been hurriedly wiped away running down either cheek.

“Sherlock, what the hell?” John gasped, sinking to his knees by the detective’s side.

Sherlock pulled the sheets up to his chin, as if it were possible to simply hide from all his problems.

“Nightmare,” Sherlock gasped, and it was only then that John realized how erratic Sherlock’s heavy, panicked breathing was. “I had a– nightmare.” Sherlock shuddered and huddled deeper into the blankets.

“It’s probably from the drugs. Remember Sherlock?” John asked. “You were drugged?”

Sherlock’s brow crinkled. “Was I?” He considered the thought for a moment before adding, “seems likely.”

The room fell into a deafening silence and it was quite out of character for Sherlock Holmes not to rush to fill it.

“Sherlock?” John asked hesitantly. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock shivered, averting his gaze from John’s as he nodded his head in a jerking motion that was far too quick to be considered anything remotely near normality.

“Sherlock?” John prompted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Sherlock answered in a voice that seemed far too small for the great detective.

“Okay.” John paused, considering for a moment before saying, “do you want a hug?”

For a horrifying moment, it looked as though Sherlock was going to laugh in his face and tell him what a horribly, positively _stupid_ idea that was, but then something softened on his face and he nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

John reached out, wrapping one arm across Sherlock’s shoulders, the other across his chest and pulled him in until his head was resting quite comfortably on the doctor’s shoulder. Sherlock stiffened, and for a moment, John wondered if he’d made a mistake in offering. Then, Sherlock sighed into John’s neck, his breath raising goose bumps across John’s skin and melted into the embrace as though they were two pieces of a puzzle, interconnected in the most intimate of ways.

Neither one made any attempt to extricate themselves from the embrace, and so they sat there—tangled on the floor while Sherlock slowly stopped shaking in fear from his nightmare, his breathing returning to normal—for what could have been hours.

John—having had less than three hours of sleep—very much wanted to go to bed. Hugging Sherlock was quite delightfully wonderful and he secretly wished they could continue the embrace until the end of time itself, but sleep was beginning to get the better of him; forcing his head to lower, his eyes to droop. He tried—perhaps not as hard as he could have—but he tried nonetheless to remove himself from Sherlock’s grip. But with every infinitesimal movement he made away from the detective, his grip around John only got stronger until it was ironclad. John wondered if he was even doing it on purpose, or if it was simply a subconscious reaction.

It wasn’t until John paid close attention to Sherlock’s slow, even breaths against his neck, and the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against John’s side that he realized Sherlock had fallen asleep in his arms. John suppressed a soft chuckle, suddenly determined not to wake him from his sleep that was decidedly more peaceful than it had been before. _People would certainly talk if they could see them like this now,_ he thought idly to himself.

John tried his very best to stay awake, but in the end it was a hopelessly pointless battle, with sleep being the one and only victor. He let his head drop, his cheek coming to rest directly in the soft curls of Sherlock’s hair. He took a deep breath and drifted off to sleep surrounded by the lovely scent that was unmistakably Sherlock Holmes.


	4. The only place I feel comfort is in your arms

_“…do not attempt to go outside if you don’t have to. I repeat, if possible, stay inside. The approaching storm is estimated to be one of the biggest London has seen…”_ the reporter on the news drawled on.

As if on cue, the wind whistled eerily as it blew past the windows of the flat, making both men jump in their seats.

“Lucky we don’t have a case, eh?” John said. “Or you’d be dragging me around the city in the middle of this storm,” John gestured towards the window where the wind was howling fiercely outside.

“Hmm,” Sherlock offered noncommittally, not looking up from the spot on the floor he had been staring intently at for the past hour or so.

“Right– Sherlock?” John leaned forwards in his chair, ducking his head and trying to establish eye contact with the detective. “What are you doing? Counting all the dust particles on the floor?” God knows he could if he felt so inclined, with that incredibly glorious mind of his.

Sherlock’s piercing gaze snapped up to meet John’s. “I’m sorry, were you speaking?”

“No. No I wasn’t, Sherlock,” John deadpanned.

“I’ve upset you.”

“No.”

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Then why are you doing that with your hand?”

John glanced down and– _damn him._ There was no fooling the great Sherlock Holmes. John unclenched his hand and stuffed it under his leg.

“I’m not mad at you, Sherlock,” he repeated.

Sherlock raised an inquisitive, perfectly groomed eyebrow.

John sighed. There was no avoiding this. No avoiding _him._

“I’m really not mad at you, Sherlock. I just–”

“You’re not mad, you’re _upset_ with me that I ‘zoned out,’ as you would put it, instead of holding a simple conversation with you.”

John couldn’t stop his mouth from falling open. That seemed to be the effect Sherlock often had on him.

“Yeah. Pretty damn close,” John said, pausing for a moment before adding, “that’s really quite amazing, you know.”

“Am I? Thank you John,” Sherlock said, looking so truly, genuinely touched that John didn’t bother to correct him.

“Right, just out of curiosity,” John said. “How did you determine all that? What did you see that told you all that?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand as though that was quite obviously the answer to John’s question.

“What? Nothing?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I know you, John,” he said simply, and boy, he really had _no_ clue, did he? It baffled John how someone so smart could be so stupid when it came to particular matters.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a small smirk. “Or perhaps I’m just that smart.”

John rolled his eyes—leave it to Sherlock to rub in his ridiculously elevated intellect.

“You’re such a dick sometimes.”

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock said with mock seriousness.

Their eyes met and they both burst into a wild fit of genuine laughter. John decided he quite liked seeing this side of Sherlock—the side with no walls up, leaving him completely bare, exposed—for John to see all of him. See what was under the mask of genius. What he saw there almost made him think Sherlock was human. Almost.

After far too long, they finally managed to catch their breath, breathing heavily and trying far too hard not to break into a brand new fit of laughter. John wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up to find the corners of Sherlock’s eyes were still delightfully crinkled, his lips curled up into one of his rare, genuine smiles—one that seemed to be reserved for John and John alone—and– _oh._

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed directly on him now, staring at him with a hungry sort of longing that made John’s breath catch in his throat. For a period of time that was far too long and yet not long enough, they simply gazed at one another, eyes locked in some form of an impasse. John had stopped breathing altogether and he was sure if he pulled his eyes from Sherlock’s, he’d find that he had ceased to breathe as well.

Just as quickly as the moment began, it ended as John blinked, ripping his eyes from Sherlock’s and clearing his throat far louder than was necessary.

“Well, I’m going to head to bed,” John announced.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He paused. Stood. Walked to the end of the room. Back to his chair. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

The wind howled like a wild animal outside the window of their flat, still picking up speed, no doubt turning into something far more ferocious as the storm rolled in.

Sherlock finally settled on picking up his violin, turning his back to John as he stared blankly out the window, playing a melancholy tune that just barely managed to drown out the wind.

“Goodnight Sherlock,” John said as he retreated to the safety of his bedroom.

Sherlock played louder, wincing as he hit a string of incorrect notes.

******

John stuffed his head under his pillow, pulling down hard on the sides in a futile attempt to drown out the din of the storm. He rolled over with a sigh: the bedside clock told him it was currently 3:26am. With another exasperated sigh, he pulled the covers up to his chin, shut his eyes. Opened them. Squeezed them shut. Put his hands over his ears. The storm continued to howl outside as if it was mocking him, the rain pounding relentlessly against his windows.

John rolled onto his side with meager hopes that the change of position might allow him to finally drown out the screeching of the storm that was currently raging throughout the city. He waited. And waited. When he got tired of waiting for sleep to overcome him, he decided to begin a staring contest with his bedside clock. _3:31am. 3:32am. 3:33am._

At exactly three thirty-seven, he heard the creak of his bedroom door at his back, barely audible over the rain drumming a purely chaotic beat against his window. He stilled, curiously listening as feet padded slowly across his room until they came to a stop at the edge of his bed. John nearly stopped breathing entirely as he felt eyes roving across his figure.

And then suddenly, the side of the bed that was behind John creaked and sunk under a weight. John rolled over, too shocked to continue pretending to be fast asleep.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock froze in the midst of pulling the covers across his body, face the purest picture of utter shock.

“John,” was all he said.

“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” John asked, trying not to feel a pang in his chest at the puppy-like eyes Sherlock was currently giving him.

“There’s a storm,” Sherlock said, as though that was explanation enough.

As far as John was concerned, it was not. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock who was still frozen in place, half under the covers.

“Isn’t that what people do?” Sherlock asked, deducing John’s unspoken question instantaneously. “Seek comfort during a storm?”

“I don’t think ‘people’ includes you, Sherlock.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, pulling the covers off him and swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, his head hanging unusually low.

“Wait,” John said. “I didn’t mean– I just meant, I didn’t think _you_ of all people would be scared of a simple storm.”

“It’s not a _simple_ storm. Biggest we’ve seen in a while,” Sherlock said to the wall.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like ‘usually am’ before falling oddly silent.

John started at the back of Sherlock’s head, quietly considering his options: he could kick Sherlock out of his room with some relatively lame excuse about _boundaries_ and all that, or–

“Are you scared of the storm?” John asked outright.

“Yes?” The questioning lilt at the end of the word gave Sherlock’s falsehood away, but John purposefully chose to ignore it.

“Alright,” John said.

Sherlock slowly turned around looking just as shocked as he had a few moments earlier, but this time, it seemed softer somehow, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

John pat the bed next to him. “You’re welcome to sleep here if it’ll make you feel better.”

Sherlock stared at John as though something in his brain had just short-circuited.

“Only if you want to,” John added, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

Sherlock blinked sharply like his brain had just kick-started itself into working once more. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He went back to work tucking himself under the covers until he seemed to be satisfied with how they were arranged and John found himself having to suppress a smile at the sight. Sherlock cast a glance in John’s direction—if John didn’t know better, he would’ve said it was a nervous look—as he lowered himself down until his head came to rest on the pillow.

They lay there in companionable silence for a while—besides the storm battering against the walls of the flat. The room lit up suddenly with a bright flash of light, followed directly by a deafening _crack_ of thunder. Out of the corner of his eye, John caught Sherlock staring at him as though he could read every line of the doctor’s face. John shut his eyes as another blinding flash lit up his bedroom, the resounding _crack_ somehow even louder than the first.

The covers rustled and the bed dipped slightly as Sherlock shifted closer until his chest was pressed up against John’s side, his head coming to rest on John’s shoulder. The top of Sherlock’s sleep-tousled curls tickled as they brushed against John’s cheek, although John found he didn’t mind the sensation.

“Good night Sherlock,” John whispered in between the deafening cracks of thunder.

“Mmm,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s neck.

After that, despite the storm raging outside, John had absolutely no trouble falling into a gloriously peaceful sleep.


	5. “It’s for science, John!”

John took a sip of his tea before setting the mug down on the side table and returning his full attention to the newspaper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock flitting around the flat, his silken housecoat flowing dramatically out behind him. He paused to scribble something in a notebook at the cluttered kitchen table, then turned with a dramatic _swoosh_ and loped across the room to hurriedly type something on his laptop. John returned his attention to the headline of the newspaper.

John glanced up curiously over the top of the newspaper as Sherlock glided back to the table to collect his notebook. He madly scrawled something down. Blinked once. Twice. Dropped the notebook on the table with a loud _thwack_ and steepled his fingers against his chin in thought. A far away look that meant he was currently traipsing through his mind palace entered his eyes, which John took advantage of and stared for a moment longer, taking in the brilliant sight before him. Sherlock’s hair was almost perfectly groomed into place despite the fact that he’d just recently woken up. His pale skin shone in the dim morning light and the sun shining through the windows made his eyes glint like he’d just discovered the world’s greatest treasure. His brow furrowed slightly, causing the most delightful of wrinkles to form across the width of his forehead. He drew in a deep, solemn breath that John instantly recognized as his ‘thinking’ breathing. Sherlock’s eyes darted blindly around the room as he processed whatever information he was currently sorting through in that beautiful mind of his.

Sherlock blinked, dropping his hands to his sides, his piercing gaze landing directly on John, who was unfortunately still staring at the delightful wonder that was Sherlock Holmes. John ripped his gaze away and snapped up his paper to what he hoped was a height that would cover his reddening face.

For the longest time, John heard no movement from the other side of the paper, aside from Sherlock taking a few steps, presumably to return to his notebook. It was because of this presumption that John was especially surprised when the couch dipped slightly to his right. Suddenly, a glorious warmth was pressed up against his side as Sherlock curled his legs up onto the couch, leaning against John. His head found a place to rest on John’s shoulder.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked in mild confusion.

“An experiment.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Care to elaborate?”

The detective sat up, and John felt surprisingly cold with the absence of Sherlock no longer pressed against him. He easily took the newspaper from John’s hands, leaning across him to set it down on the side table.

“Hug me,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry, what?”

“Hug. Me.” Sherlock repeated as though he were speaking to someone mentally deficient—which was almost everyone, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John asked, worry creeping into his features.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, although there was a suspiciously joyful glint to them. “There’s nothing wrong with me John. It’s for an experiment.”

“An experiment?” John repeated.

“Yes, that’s what I said. Are you having trouble hearing this morning?”

John ignored the retort. “What kind of experiment are you doing that involves– this,” he gestured between the two of them.

“I am studying the relation between human contact and its effect on those involved.”

“So you’re studying cuddling?”

“That’s not what I said,” Sherlock said.

John raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. “I suppose you _could_ phrase it that way.”

“And you want to do this experiment with me?”

Sherlock looked positively affronted. “Well who else would I do it with?”

“Good point,” John said, pausing for a moment before adding, “alright.”

Sherlock tilted his head, “alright?”

“Yes, I’ll do the experiment with you.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You say it like you have a choice.”

John rolled his eyes so hard he worried they might pop right out of his skull.

Sherlock stared at John expectantly.

“What’s the first step? To the experiment?” John asked.

“Umm,” Sherlock said eloquently. “Just…” he jumped off the couch, bounded to the table where he’d left his notebook and began flipping madly through it. “…Give me a moment.” Sherlock briefly glanced at John as he worked his way through the book, almost _flinching_ when their eyes met. After that, Sherlock’s eyes remained glued to the information the pages contained until he found what he was looking for.

“Ah. Yes. This looks like a good place to start,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

John waited a beat before asking, “what is it?”

“A hug,” Sherlock said. “For approximately five minutes.”

“Five– you want to time it?”

Sherlock looked shocked that John would even consider suggesting otherwise. “Yes.”

John sighed. “Alright then.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock procured his phone from the side pocket of his robe and got the timer ready.

“All ready,” he announced, showing John the screen of his phone which was indeed set for exactly five minutes.

“Good,” John said.

“Good.”

It was as if Sherlock had suddenly turned into stone, frozen in place and not even blinking.

“Sorry, did you want to start this now?” John asked. Perhaps he’d misjudged the situation.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, taking the smallest steps he could possibly manage back towards the couch.

He set his notebook and phone down on the small table beside the couch before dropping himself onto the sofa beside John, the sides of his robe puffing out to lie dramatically around him. Sherlock leaned forward until his long arms had enveloped John. Sherlock was stiff and the harsh angles of his body poked into John where their bodies met. John hesitantly allowed his arms to encircle Sherlock’s lithe frame. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his pounding heart and was rewarded with the homey scent of pure _Sherlock:_ the sweet scent of his shampoo and a mix of chemicals—remnant evidence of the many experiments he’d conducted.

John tightened his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer. Sherlock let out a soft moan and gradually melted into a boneless heap in John’s arms. Against his better judgment, John allowed his chin to come to rest on the crown of Sherlock’s head, causing Sherlock to nuzzle even closer still, his nose brushing dangerously close to John’s pulse point. John barely managed to suppress a shudder.

They stayed locked in their glorious embrace for awhile, John secretly relishing in the soft puffs of Sherlock’s breath whispering across his neck. Neither man dared move a muscle for fear of ruining the moment. And it would be a damn shame to even consider the possibility of ruining this moment.

After a series of utterly uncountable minutes passed by, John’s head gained some modicum of control back from the vicinity of his heart—and certain other places—that were currently making decisions for him, however unwise they may have been. He pulled back ever so slightly in order to speak properly.

“Um, I think it’s been five minutes?” he said awkwardly.

Sherlock made a sound John could only describe as what he imagined a choking seal would sound like.

“Sherlock?”

John could have sworn Sherlock tried to burrow his face even deeper into John’s neck, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like ‘damn it.’

“Sherlock?” John repeated, trying to gently nudge the detective away from him so he could see his face.

“Hngh,” Sherlock said, his lips brushing against John’s neck.

John nearly fainted.

Once he managed to somewhat regain his composure, John said, “you forgot to set the timer, didn’t you?”

Sherlock finally released John, sitting up to look just slightly to the left of his eyes—due to his profound embarrassment, he absolutely refused to look John in the eye. To John’s surprise, he found Sherlock was actually _blushing,_ his cheeks turning a delightfully rosy shade of reddish-pink.

“Right. Well, I think that might void the experiment,” John pointed out.

“Y–yes,” Sherlock stammered—and when had Sherlock ever stammered before? “I suppose it does.”

“I guess we’ll just have to do it again,” John said, carefully studying Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s for a moment, a slight glint rising in them, before returning to rest on the left side of his face. John wondered what Sherlock saw reflected in them.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, leaning towards John when his phone rang, making both men jump.

Sherlock reached across John to collect his phone from its place on the side table. He frowned as he read the message. His frown turned to a slight pout.

“We have a case,” he said.

******

It was a lovely Sunday afternoon, the warm sunlight streaming through the windows of two twenty-one b casting ornately intriguing shadows across the floor. John was lounging on the sofa, very much enjoying the book Lestrade had gifted him—‘How to Survive Your Roommate’—until he found he had a lap full of said roommate—rather, Sherlock’s head at least. John idly wondered how he did that: sneaking around the flat so quietly without that even being his objective.

John set aside his book, staring down at Sherlock. “Is this the second part of the experiment?” he asked.

Sherlock brought a single finger to his lips. “Shh, I’m thinking.”

John raised his eyebrows. That was probably about as much of an answer he’d be getting out of Sherlock, even though it was as equally helpful to John as someone dumping a couple hundred chickens into his lap.

John watched Sherlock for a moment, almost able to _hear_ the wheels of his brilliant mind turning. It was quite enjoyable to watch, really. The detective brought his hands to his chin and steepled his fingers there. His brow furrowed slightly and his eyes darted back and forth, presumably as he sifted through his thoughts.

John let his hand fall to rest dangerously close to the dark curls of Sherlock’s hair. He considered his options. He supposed it could be considered part of the experiment if he just–

Sherlock flinched slightly as John’s hand entwined itself into his hair, but he made no move to stop the action. John studied Sherlock’s schooled expression closely, attempting to do some deducing himself. Needless to say he quickly found that he was rather unsuccessful in that area.

Nevertheless, he boldly continued carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. With each stroke, Sherlock seemed to sink deeper into John’s lap, his eyelids slowly fluttering shut.

“Mm, your hands are soft,” Sherlock hummed dazedly.

His eyes shot wide open then, and he shouted, “soft hands! That’s it John! I’ve solved it!”

He sat up and grabbed John’s shoulders, a huge grin spread wide across his face.

“You’re wonderfully brilliant!” he exclaimed and yanked John towards him, then planted a _kiss_ right in the middle of John’s forehead.

As Sherlock pulled back, he froze, eyes wide and slowly released his ironclad grip on John’s shoulders. John’s mouth had dropped open in complete and utter shock and he was surprised his jaw wasn’t dragging on the floor at the base of the couch.

“Well,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Better call Lestrade and tell him who to arrest.”

Sherlock jumped off the couch and retreated to his room.

They didn’t speak about the experiment for three weeks after that.

******

Sherlock was _tired._ It had been a long week. Over the past seven days Sherlock had solved thirteen cases, been shot at on six different occasions, rescued John from his would-be kidnapper, and received a fairly decent knock to the noggin with a baby stroller.

John sat on the sofa, his laptop open on his lap, typing up a new entry for his blog. This one was bound to be particularly exciting, seeing the week they’d just survived. He heard Sherlock dragging his heavy feet across the floor before he saw him, slinking towards the couch.

His hair was in a disarray of tangles and not at all styled how it normally was. His housecoat was half hanging off one of his shoulders—though he didn’t seem to notice—and the buttons of his shirt were done up mismatchedly.

“Christ, Sherlock. You look like hell,” John said.

Sherlock snorted. “Feel like it too.”

He collapsed onto the couch next to John, leaning closer and squinting to read what he was typing.

“Hmm,” he said.

John gave him a sideways glance, their noses nearly brushing against one another. “Is that a good ‘hmm’ or a bad ‘hmm?’”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Do keep going.”

“Alright,” John said slowly, now well and thoroughly bathed in confusion.

At Sherlock’s request, he continued to type, earning the occasional hum from the detective.

Sherlock tucked his legs up onto the couch, subtly snuggling slightly closer to John’s side. John certainly didn’t mind.

After John had typed a few more lines, Sherlock’s head came to rest delicately on his shoulder.

“Alright,” John sighed, closing the laptop once he’d finished. “Tea?”

His question was answered with a deafening silence that was quite unusual to be coming from the great Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock?”

John craned his neck to look down at Sherlock, who’d apparently fallen asleep at some point on his shoulder. He could feel Sherlock’s chest rise and fall against him with every steady breath he took.

“Guess that’s a no for tea, then,” John said to no one in particular.

He smiled at the top of Sherlock’s head. It was all quite lovely, really, he thought to himself.

John laid his head against the back of the sofa and shut his eyes—he supposed he could use a nap as well.


	6. Admit it, you like snuggling

It was a chilly winter evening. Mrs. Hudson had dropped off tea earlier at two twenty-one b for John and Sherlock and had made sure to tell them ‘you boys better bundle up tight tonight, it’s going to get cold out there,’ before heading off to bed herself.

“Going to be chilly tonight,” John said, glancing across the room to where Sherlock was precariously perched in his chair with one leg draped over the armrest.

“Hmm,’ Sherlock said in agreement.

“Have enough extra blankets, then?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, accompanied by a noncommittal nod.

“Good.”

John went back to reading his book.

The words danced across the pages, elusively avoiding any sort of comprehension. John glanced up at Sherlock, who was now mumbling something to himself and waving a hand around. He closed his book.

“Think we’ll have a new case tomorrow?” John asked.

Sherlock’s piercing gaze turned to John. “Probability would say so, yes.”

John nodded. “Good.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, brows pinching together for a brief moment.

“Well,” John said, standing up. “I’m off to bed then.”

Sherlock nodded. John didn’t make any move to leave the room.

“Hope it doesn’t get too cold tonight. Walls are drafty,” John added.

Sherlock glanced up at John, confusion clearly written across his features. “Are you feeling alright, John?”

“Yeah. Yep. Definitely.” John said. “Just don’t want to catch a cold. You know?”

“No? Yes? Huh?”

 _Some genius,_ John thought. _Can’t take a hint._ “I’m going to bed. Like, right now,” John repeated.

“Yes, you’ve said that already.”

John rolled his eyes, exaggerating the motion so much so, he was half convinced Mrs. Hudson would have _heard_ it from her room downstairs.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said. “Are you coming or not?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s cold out,” John explained. “The flat is drafty. We might as well stay warm. Consider it the next part of the experiment.”

“Ah. Oh. _Oh,_ ” Sherlock said. “You want to–”

“ _Yes,_ ” John exclaimed.

Sherlock jumped off his chair, striding to where John stood in a matter of steps. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

John rolled his eyes again at the back of Sherlock’s head as he followed him to his bedroom.

Sherlock pulled off his housecoat and discarded it with an overly dramatic toss across the room before climbing into the bed. John followed him shortly and they lay there for a moment, awkwardly staring into the darkness.

The bed dipped and rustled as Sherlock shifted closer to John until he was pressed up against his side. He draped an arm across John’s stomach and nuzzled into the crook of his neck, unable to stop himself from letting out a small sigh. In turn, John wrapped his own arms around Sherlock.

In a matter of moments, they’d each melted into the embrace of one another with their legs entwined, unsure of where one began and the other ended. John had to admit he liked– _this._ The experiment. Sherlock. He liked Sherlock. John smiled into the dark curls of Sherlock’s hair: he _liked Sherlock_. He liked having Sherlock’s slender body so achingly close to his. He liked Sherlock’s long limbs wrapped around him, entrapping him. Claiming him.

“Admit it,” John whispered. “You like snuggling.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled into his neck. “There are twenty-seven ways I could kill you using items only from this room. Do _not_ repeat that to anyone.”

John hummed, pulling Sherlock closer.

“I love you too.”

Needless to say, from then on, there was no need for two bedrooms in two twenty-one b.


End file.
